


Catskins

by AMBlue



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Arranged Marriage, Background OC's - Freeform, Bilbo Baggins-Centric, Gen, M/M, trans OC's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMBlue/pseuds/AMBlue
Summary: AU- Everyone Lives/Nobody DiesOn the road to Erebor, Thorin and Bilbo found love, but after Bilbo's betrayal before the battle their relationship shattered. At the battle, Thorin was never fatally wounded and so never reconciled with Bilbo. Fearing that Goldlust still clouded Thorin’s mind, Bilbo chose to stay near Erebor (despite his banishment) in order to better protect his friends. Set two years post-BotFA,  Bilbo works in the kitchens disguised as a dwarf below and Thorin rules with regret above





	1. 1. Soup

**Author's Note:**

> A hobbit-ish retelling of the fairy tale "Catskins"

 

Sweat dripped down his face. Bilbo resisted the temptation to reach up and press firmly on his face to ensure the sap there had not simply melted off. This was one of the fatal flaws in his rather ingenious plan.

 

If by “ingenious” one took to meaning “highly foolish.”

 

“All right there, Baldor?” Óskur called as he sailed passed and out the ever-swinging doors. He was young, maybe about as young as they assumed Bilbo to be, and wickedly light on his feet. Even though he balanced half a dozen platters, Bilbo knew he was unlikely to drop them. “The water too hot for you? You look like you’re trying to birth a boulder!”

 

Bilbo scowled, flicking soapy water at Óskur’s retreating back. The young dwarf laughed as he disappeared down the hall.

 

Standing all night in front of the enormous tub of scalding water meant Bilbo’s hands were already pruny. He was soaked all down his front from scrubbing honey off the large ruglach serving platters.

 

Bilbo had just set aside the last fork in his sink, carefully wiping his brow with one sudsy forearm, when Óskur wheeled back into the kitchen. He was grinning from beneath his short black beard when he dumped a new armful of plates and utensils into his sink.

 

“Maraddanûn,” Bilbo grumbled, wringing out his dishtowel over the sink as he prepares to wash the next round of dishes. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the word meant, but he’d heard enough dwarrow mumble it upon being given an unwanted task that he thinks it must be appropriate for him to utter as well.

 

“Mahassûn!” Óskur laughed and rushes off to collect the next course of appetizers – dozens of tiny red potatoes, scooped out and filled with a sort of soured cream or fresh cheese.

 

Behind him, Óilvur – Óskur’s much older cousin – paced. On the quest, Bilbo had not realized that Bombur’s enormous braid had been as much a feature of practicality as of presentation. Many of the dwarrow here in the kitchens kept their beards tightly plaited out of the way or else (like Bilbo) shamefully short. One didn’t work in the kitchens if they had much other choice in life, after all. Óilvur’s long gray and black beard was plaited into a single tight braid, and though it was usually tucked neatly beneath an apron or into a belt, it swung wildly in front of his chin now.

 

“Where _is_ he?” He had muttered the words about twenty times and Bilbo was half tempted to dump a pot full of his dirty dishwater over the sous chef the next time he asked. “Where is he?”

 

Unable to take it, Bilbo tried to reign in his temper as he asked, “Who, sir?”

 

Óilvur rounded on him, beard swinging. “If you’ve time to ask questions, you’re not working hard enough to keep your position, _dishwasher._ ”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes, bit his tongue, and tried to ignore the increasingly frantic chant of “where is he.”

 

Óskur reappeared, dumping more plates into Bilbo’s sink. He reached for the next dish to bring out to the nobles in the dining hall only to have Óilvur slap his hand away. “More time between courses! Nipar still hasn’t arrived to make the night’s soup.”

 

“Óilvur,” Óskur started, and Bilbo could hear the mirth in his voice even as Óskur dropped to a whisper, “Nipar is _drunk._ I saw him in the buttery.”

 

Bilbo wished he could have seen the look on Óilvur’s face, but contented himself with listening to the spluttering curses he let forth instead. Thinking himself safe under the cover of Óilvur’s howling and Óskur’s maniacal laughing, Bilbo allowed himself a quiet muttering.

 

“Even _I_ could make better soup than that drunk.” Óskur’s laughter came to an abrupt and alarming halt, though Óilvur continued his rampage.

 

“Where am I going to find a soup chef at this hour?” A glance over his shoulder, showed the older cook tugging raggedly at his hair and beard in despair. “I will be disgraced! I will be dismissed from the kitchens – from Erebor herself! Our family will carry this shame for generations to come!”

 

A hand came down heavy on Bilbo’s shoulder, making him jump and splash soapy gray water over the edge of the sink. Óskur was grinning unnervingly.

 

“Cousin,” He said, all too politely, “Baldor here can cook.”

 

Bilbo squawked, trying and failing to shove Óskur’s hand off his shoulder even as Óilvur ceased his howling to fix Bilbo with a hard stare. “ _Him?_ Is this true?”

 

“Well, I-“ Bilbo started, wiping his hands on his shirtfront to dry them even as he found himself nodding gingerly. It was true enough that he could cook, as any respectable hobbit could. Even the wealthiest of hobbits cooked for themselves most of the time, only hiring cooks for large catered events when it simply was not feasible to feed a hundred guests by yourself.

 

Óilvur was scoffing, however, pulling back, “ I cannot let my _dishwasher_ serve the _king._ ”

 

Bilbo tried to school his face into something impassive. Of course the king would be in attendance at the feast going on upstairs. He was host and ruling lord; it would be improper for him to abandon his guests to their meal now.

 

“What is taking so long?” Bilbo’s eyes widened and he spun back around to face his sink as Bombur stuck his head around the corner from one of the adjoining kitchens. Had his old friend seen him? He must not have, or if he had, then he would not have recognized him, not beneath everything he wore in disguise. “The guests are beginning to _murmur_.”

 

“Nothing,” Óilvur piped up quickly. He reached out to grab Bilbo’s elbow firmly. “The soup will be done in fifteen minutes.”

 

“Thirty minutes,” Bilbo hissed, keeping his chin down and praying Bombur would disappear before he had to turn around fully.

 

“ _Twenty.”_ Óilvur growled, pulling Bilbo away from the sink as Bombur nodded and turned away to shout instructions to the small army of dwarrow manning the spits mounted over the half dozen fires. The smell of caramelizing meat had been making Bilbo’s stomach growl for the better part of the evening.

 

“Óskur, this was your idea, you help him” Óilvur snarled, “If anything goes wrong tonight I will have you both banished for good.”

 

Óskur moaned and Bilbo tried to keep his stomach from roiling. He’d already been banished once and the thought of repeating the experience, or worse, being discovered, was enough to make his knees feel weak. There wasn’t time to contemplate that now though.

 

“How many guests are up there?” Bilbo asked even as Óilvur abandoned them to their task, rushing to oversee the rest of his staff.

 

“Maybe twenty five,” Óskur said, rushing them toward the pantry as they spoke. “The delegation from the Iron Hills has already been here some weeks, so it’s only the King’s family and counsel and Lord Dain and his chief officers.”

 

Bilbo sighed and shook his head and started pulling lettuce and cucumber from the larder shelves, motioning for Óskur to do the same. “We have stock already made, don’t we? And potatoes already peeled? Oh, and grab those onions too, no, not the yellow ones the green ones.”

 

There was a single station free and Bilbo had Óskur leave their burden with him and go in search of the potatoes, chicken stock, and butter, while he began chopping the remaining vegetables. He was nearly done when Óskur returned and Bilbo set him to chopping the rest while he began to simmer the butter and vegetables in a large skillet.

 

“Baldor, that don’t look like soup,” Óskur grumbled. He might have been light on his feet, but the dwarf was not especially deft with a paring knife.

 

“Less talking, more chopping,” Was all Bilbo deigned to respond with. Óskur dumped the rest of the greens into Bilbo’s pan and set the broth on to boil at Bilbo’s instruction.

 

The onions were beginning to sizzle and pop and Bilbo’s spoon was just beginning to dent the softening potatoes when Óskur set him with a funny look. “How do you know all this, Baldor?”

 

Bilbo instinctively reached up to touch his face. He would never grow accustomed to his fingers meeting coarse hair instead of smooth skin when he did so, and he subtly pushed his short beard more firmly against his face. Standing over the hot pan was making him sweat even more than usual and he prayed that it would not be enough to loosen the sap keeping the false beard in place.

 

“My father was a digger,” he admitted finally, with the appropriate amount of bashfulness. He’d learned long ago that one of the few jobs lower than working in the kitchens, was toiling in the ground. Produce was something you traded for, not grew yourself, if you were a respectable dwarf. It was enough to shut Óskur up for the moment anyway.

 

His assistant kept his silence as they poured the vegetables into the boiling broth and simmered it, adding salt and pepper and stirring vigorously until the soup was thick and smooth. Óskur still looked unnerved even as the other servers began to gather, pouring the soup into a large set of silver soup bowls.

 

“It’s _green_ ,” Óskur hissed, voicing the concern that seemed to be written across every serving dwarrow's face, even as the lot of them carefully chopped tiny ringlets of chives onto the soup.

 

“It’s what we have,” Bilbo huffed, “You haven’t even tasted it!”

 

“His lordship will not be pleased,” A server murmured, even as she carefully lifted her platter.

 

“His _lordship_ will try it, and he will _like_ it.” Bilbo said stubbornly, drawing himself up to his full height, even as dread began to build in the pit of his stomach.

 

It was a green soup, the color of spring peas still on the vine. What had he been thinking? Dwarrow were not known for their vegetable dishes, and what dishes they did have were pink with beets or orange with sweet potatoes. The greenest they had was the occasional wilted green baked into a tart or hidden beneath a slap of meat. It was never so obviously displayed.

 

As the servers left, Óskur agreeing to serve the King himself lest the results be disastrous, the dread only grew in Bilbo’s heart. What if they knew? What if they guessed that no dwarf would present their king with such a dish? What if he were cast out of the mountain again over such a stupid offense? Bilbo piled the pots and pans he’d used to cook and buried himself in the dishes that had piled up in his absence.

 

He almost did not notice Óskur’s return. The floor seemed dropped out from under Bilbo’s feet. Óskur was white as a sheet and for the first time since Bilbo had met him, he looked like he might trip over his own feet.

 

“What is it?” He demanded, wiping his hands on his already soaked shirt again.

 

“The King.” Óskur started. He seemed to choke on the words and Bilbo fought down the urge to shake the young dwarf. “He likes the soup.”

 

Bilbo stared, uncomprehending. “What?”

 

“The King likes your soup, Baldor.” Óskur repeated, almost shrill in his panic. “He wants to meet the chef.”

 

“I can’t!” Bilbo didn’t realize he was nearly shouting in alarm. “I can’t! Óskur, we have to _do_ something.”

 

“There is nothing to be done,” Óilvur had appeared, overhearing enough of the conversation to jump in, though he too looked unnerved. “Make yourself presentable before he arrives.”

 

“Sir,” Bilbo leaned forward, desperately, mind racing to find a way out. The others might not see through his disguise, but Thorin might. He’d be lucky, then, to escape with his life. At worst, he’d end up with his head on a spike for daring to break his banishment unwarranted.

 

“Sir, you cannot present his majesty with a _dishwasher,”_ Bilbo finally spluttered, attempting to imbue the title with all the disdain Óilvur normally said it with. “It would be a disgrace.”

 

Óilvur paused, suddenly hesitant, so Bilbo plunged forward. “Tell him you made the soup, sir. Please, it would only be right. To produce a dish that his majesty favors would be a credit to you and your family, where I would make you seem like a fool for allowing me near food preparation.”

 

Finally, Óilvur gave a stiff nod, smoothing his plaited beard with one hand and squaring his shoulders, allowing Bilbo to turn back to the mountain of dirty dishes in his sink with shaking hands.

 

Thorin was coming to this very room.

 

Bilbo was elbows deep in suds when the young herald opened the kitchen’s swinging double doors.

 

“His majesty, Thorin III, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.”

 

Bilbo, as one with the rest of the kitchen staff, turned to face the doors, sweeping into a low bow as several people strode into the room. Head ducked low, Bilbo only saw the hems of tunics embroidered with shimmering thread and the fur trimmed edges of long robes trailing over the ground and boots with intricate patterns tooled into their leather. He heard the rest of the staff rise, and turned quickly back to his sink, breathing hard.

 

He knew in his head that he was well hidden. His hair fell past his shoulders now, hiding both his face and his pointed ears. His furry feet were well hidden beneath heavy boots. Even his face, turned away though he was, was half hidden beneath a false beard. Besides, there was no reason for Thorin, King Under the Mountain, to be searching for a traitor amongst his kitchen staff. There was no reason for him to be looking for Bilbo at all.

 

“Your majesty,” Bombur had joined the rest of his staff upon the King’s arrival, and he sounded fond, though restrained in his greeting.

 

“Be at ease,” It was as though someone had turned Bilbo’s heart into a bird, the way it fluttered and scrambled against his ribs. It was a startling realization that this was the first time he’d heard Thorin speak since their altercation before the battle, and that had been a very, very long time ago. “You are the chef then?”

 

“I am _a_ chef to be sure, but I was not your soup chef this evening, majesty,” Bombur chuckled. There was a shuffling of feet before Bilbo heard Óilvur’s stammering.

 

“It is an honor, your majesty,” Bilbo peered behind him, barely turning his head though his hands still scrubbed the same silver platter over and over. Thorin (for it could only be Thorin in those long blue robes, even if Bilbo could not see his face) was circling poor Óilvur. He almost smiled, remembering how the king had once circled him that first night in Bag End.

 

“The soup,” Thorin said finally, “It was green.”

 

“Yes, majesty,” Óilvur’s voice was high and breathless in fear.

 

“Why?” The pause was almost palpable and for a moment Bilbo feared Óilvur would crack and reveal him.

 

“Our usual soup chef was indisposed. I made the soup using what ingredients were readily available at hand.” Óilvur stammered. Thorin let out a long breath. If Bilbo did not know better, he would have called it a sigh. Behind him, a familiar voice murmured something he could not quite make out. When next Thorin spoke, he sounded as though he were speaking from the far end of a long tunnel.

 

“I thank you and your staff for an excellent meal.” It was formal, and though not ungrateful, the King’s mind must have been elsewhere. He paused again, before adding, “And the soup. You will make it for me again tomorrow.”

 

There was a chorus of “yes, your majesty” and “thank you, your majesty” and “it is the highest honor, your majesty” which followed the King as he and his escort left the kitchens. It wasn’t until the doors swung shut behind them that Bilbo allowed himself to breathe, slumping forward over the dirty sink.

 

\--

 

The wages of a dishwasher, even a royal dishwasher, were not enough for a full house in Erebor, not even truly an apartment. The room Bilbo rented had no window or any fireplace. Instead the small square room had a set of sconces set high on the stone walls. Bilbo had a small wooden stool he used to reach them, needing the extra height to light the oil in them, but that night Bilbo was too exhausted to bother.

 

This deep in the mountain, no outside light filtered in, leaving the quarter of the city in perpetual darkness, pierced only by what light the dwarrow there could make themselves. In the dark, Bilbo climbed the stone steps to his room, unlocking and then firmly relocking the door behind himself. It was only when he’d done up all three of his bolts that he carefully pulled his feet from their heavy boots.

 

He sighed gratefully at the feeling of the cold stone floor beneath his feet. It was only Blotmath (or âfdohyar, he supposed he ought to call it now) but the temperatures were already low enough to have him shivering if he slept without most of his clothing on. The cold was good for one thing, at least, since it marked the lull in work between the Durin’s Day and Mahalmerag.

 

Bilbo felt his way forward in the darkness until he found the small table beside his bed. By touch alone, he found his flint box and carefully lit the tallow candle he kept there. In its thin wavering light, he poured water from the tin jug into the stone basin set into the wall. Then, using the jug’s reflective surface for a mirror began carefully pulling the beard from his face and rinsing the sap from his chin. Absently, the thought of how he would need to sneak into the stables soon to cut more of the ponies’ fur for his beard. Not for the first time, Bilbo wished dearly for his golden ring.

 

After the battle, he’d given it to Gandalf for safe keeping, wrapped tightly in cloth so that the wizard never touched it with his bare skin. He would not pretend to understand Gandalf’s caution around the piece of jewelry, but he did not need to. The blasted thing was gone, for better or for worse, and Bilbo did not expect to see it again.

 

Face clean, Bilbo sat on the edge of his bed. From the drawer in his bedside table, he withdrew a well-worn wooden box. It was small enough to sit comfortably in the palm of his hand, lid sliding open rather than lifting up. Unadorned, it was a thing of function rather than beauty.

 

Gingerly, Bilbo slid opened the lid. He ought to toss the box and all its contents into the Running River, but he never could quite bring himself to. The ring, silver caging in deep blue stone beneath with the single cirth ( _rarur,_ he’d learned), Bilbo kept for practical reasons. Ring of the line of Durin or no, he would be able to buy passage out of the mountain with it if he ever needed to. Thorin had not known the significance of exchanging rings in the Shire when he’d given it to Bilbo, only saying it was the first part of his payment for saving his life. Still, Bilbo kept it.

 

The bead, Bilbo could admit was entirely sentimental. Whatever dwarrow claimed, Bilbo knew few would recognize the silver bead that had held one of Thorin’s few braids once. By now even Bilbo understood the significance of the gesture and he allowed himself the small token because the thought of destroying it felt cruel.

 

And last, though Bilbo could hardly look at it, a shard of gemstone. It seemed to glow from a light of its own making, catching meager candlelight and spinning tiny rainbows from it. The Arkenstone itself had cracked beneath one of Smaug’s enormous talons when Bilbo had first stolen it, and he’d kept the broken shard without thinking. Though at first Bilbo had fretted over what the dwarves would think of the damage, he allowed himself to chuckle now. Even managing to reclaim the damn stone would be marred for the line of Durin since it was already damaged. Thought he hoped not to be cruel, Bilbo was not above a little guilty joy in frustrating the people who had hurt him.

 

Perhaps there would be no quiet now, not now that Thorin’s attention had been on the kitchen. If there was hope in the thought, hope that his charade might end and end favorably, it was drowned out by fear and reason. Thorin would not look to the kitchens again and he would not discover Bilbo.

 

The foolish hobbit would do better to worry about the problems at hand. Teaching Óilvur how to recreate the soup would be trouble enough without worrying about royals who may or may not still be mad as a march hare.


	2. 2. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo encounters old friends and new challenges

Teaching Óilvur was even more of a task than Bilbo imagined. The stubborn dwarf has spent so long giving orders to others that he no longer remembered how to take orders himself. He’d threatened to sack Bilbo enough times that finally, Bilbo had snapped that if Óilvur was so against taking instructions he really would quit and leave Óilvur to figure the blasted soup out himself.

 

In the end, Óilvur had thrown up his hands and ordered Bilbo to make the soup alone this day and all days to come, dishwashing duties be damned. The sous chef had stormed off, scaring two servers and a delivery boy on the way. Bilbo himself fared no better for the argument, save for the fact that he was now chained to his station.

 

He threw himself into the work and was chopping potatoes so furiously that he did not hear footsteps approaching.

 

“So this is our new chef! I knew that old Óilvur wouldn’t have come up with something like that on his own. What are you call-“ Bombur trailed off as, too late, Bilbo ducked his head.

 

“By my beard,” The dwarf murmured, a note of uncertainty still lingering in his voice even as Bilbo carefully set his knife down. He could feel his feet, itching in their uncomfortable boots, telling him to run, but remained rooted to the spot. Somehow, beneath the fear, a small part of Bilbo relaxed.

 

It was bound to happen eventually. That he’d survived undetected for almost two years was almost unthinkable, especially in such close proximity to someone who knew his face. If he were to be discovered, which it seemed he had been, at least if was by Bombur, the most merciful of Thorin’s old company. Slowly Bilbo straightened. His hands were trembling, but he was proud to say his eyes were dry. He did not look at Bombur as he waited for the call.

 

Bombur took a shaky breath beside him and then, miraculously, miraculously, plunged forward with his conversation. “What are you called, lad?”

 

“Baldor,” Bilbo coughed, shock choking him.

 

“You’ve done well here, Baldor,” Bombur said carefully, laying a gentle hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

 

“You ought to come round for supper,” He said pointedly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve a brother I think would take quite the shine to you.”

 

\--

 

When he sees Bilbo, Bofur nearly began weeping, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy and relief as he dragged Bilbo into their home.

 

As soon as the door shut behind them he wrapped Bilbo up in his arms, squeezing him tightly enough that Bilbo ought to complain but cannot bring himself too and if Bofur smells like soot and tobacco and home then he can just keep quiet about that too. Bofur holds Bilbo away from him by the shoulders, laughing.

 

“Look at _you!”_ He crows, grinning wide enough that he looks fit to burst.

 

“You look-“ He cuts himself off, chuckling, “Well, you look like a real dwarf now.” And cannot help but hug him again.

 

The family’s home is larger than Bilbo’s room, which he supposes only makes sense to accommodate the family. He can’t be sure if Bifur lives with them as well, though Bilbo guesses he does, but between Bofur, Bombur, his wife, and all of their children it must be a rather tight fit in the relatively modest home. It too was carved from the stone of the mountain, but a hearth crackled in most rooms and thick worn carpets cover most of the floors.

 

Bofur lead Bilbo down the short hall, assuring him that his nieces and nephews ought to be asleep by now, to a small kitchen. He pushed Bilbo into a chair and set about making _tea_ of all things. The sight made Bilbo feel as though the bird in his chest were fighting to be free, even if only to perch on Bofur’s ridiculous hat.

 

He spoke of nothing at all – the toy shop he’d opened once they’d finished the worst repairs to the kingdom, the new infant Bombur and his wife had bore since the mountain was reclaimed, and how sorely Bilbo had been missed.

 

Finally he set two deep glazed mugs on the table. When Bilbo looked up, Bofur’s smile was gone.

 

“Bilbo,” He said seriously, “What are you doing here? We thought you long gone, back to the west. Or, we had hoped you had gone. We could not think you truly dead but,” Bofur shook his head, unwilling to finish the sentence. Instead he leaned forward, taking one of Bilbo’s hands in his leathered ones.

 

“If you are found out by the wrong people you could be killed, my friend. What on earth possessed you to return? Is it him? Did you return to protect him?” At that, Bilbo laughed and gave Bofur’s hand a squeeze before withdrawing it and sipping the tea. It was aromatic to a fault and the tannins left Bilbo smacking his lips.

 

“You daft dwarf,” He said affectionately, “I came back to you protect you lot. How was I to know his royal idiocy had gotten his right mind back?”

 

Bofur turned an amusing shade of red. “But, don’t you love ‘im?”

 

“Of course, I do,” Bilbo grumbled, “But that doesn’t mean I’m about to let him separate my head from my shoulders. I’m rather fond of the attachment.”

 

\--

 

It started our very simply. Óilvur and Bombur, as head chefs, mutually agreed that after the fiasco that had lead to the Green Soup, it would be best if Nipar did not return to the kitchens. Then it was only a matter of time before the two head chefs realized that, if the King was to continue requesting the odd green soup, that it would be best to put Bilbo in the position to make it. Óilvur continued to assume credit for its creation, but both Bilbo and Bombur were glad to keep quiet on the matter.

 

The requests came often enough and Bilbo learned quickly enough that Óilvur soon found himself grudgingly agreeing to place Bilbo as soup chef permanently. Young Óskur hooted and teased Bilbo mercilessly, but the wages were better and, with âfnarag/Yuleblot growing colder, Bilbo was glad to have his hands out of the dishwater if only to keep them from chapping quite so badly in the dry winter air.

 

For the moment, life seemed to be on the upturn. With more accomplices, Bilbo found it easier to find boots that did not pinch his over-large feet and animal hair for his beards that did not irritate his skin. On his days off, Bilbo visited Bombur and his children or Bofur and Bifur at their toyshop.

 

Unable to quite keep his mouth shut, Bofur had only spilled Bilbo’s secret to Nori, who in turn had told Dori. The secret might have traveled all the way to Thorin’s ears from there, but Ori (the only person Dori might have told) did not live with his brothers. Instead he attended what Bilbo could only describe as a barely formed university. Either way, it kept Bilbo’s secret safe and, since Dori now served as tailor to a wide audience, more warmly dressed than he had been in years.

 

He had not realized quite how much he’d missed his companions in the years since the battle. Bilbo was, if nothing else, resilient, and had lived secretly in the mountain without suffering overmuch, but now, surrounded by familiar and friendly faces, Bilbo realized that he would not be able to return to his solitude without missing them very dearly indeed.

 

Of course, all good things must come to an end.

 

It was early morning, dawn just beginning to peak over the edges of the horizon. Bilbo, though only soup chef was already in the kitchen, stewing porridge with plumped raisins and cream. The smell of the morning’s bread filled the kitchens, chasing out all the smoke from the feast the night before. Though no light from the sun reached the kitchens, the room was bright with lamplight against the whitewashed (though stained) stone walls.

 

Óilvur burst into the kitchens in a tizzy, trailing a list almost longer than himself and an unfamiliar dwarf. All the dwarves Bilbo had met favored heavy belts and boots, but this dwarf sported a belt so wide it was almost a sash and boots that turned up into points at the ends. Their beard was thinner than most of the dwarrow Bilbo knew, making him guess the dwarf was female, though by now Bilbo also knew to always ask the dwarf themselves rather than make assumptions. Additionally, the dwarf’s hair was jet black, smooth as silk, shining and matching black eyes. Though Bilbo had met pale dwarves nearly the color of alabaster from spending so long in the dark and he’d met brown dwarves, whose skin reminded him of copper, never had he met a dwarf with such golden skin before.

 

The cumulative effect was that when he hurriedly asked Óskur who the unknown dwarf was, Bilbo was not entirely surprised with the answer. “Oh, you didn’t know? The Blacklock delegation from Orocarni arrives today for the Mahalmerag celebrations. We’ll be up to our beards feeding all these extra mouths.”

 

Bilbo groaned, though his eyes followed the Blacklock dwarf with interest. Following his gaze, Óskur grinned and elbowed him. “Then again, I hear their princess is _quite_ easy on the eyes.”

 

The rest of the day was spent with a cook from Orocarni, comparing their larders and preparing for the introduction of Orocarni ingredients and recipes to the Ereborean table to accommodate their guests. Unlike landlocked Erebor or the Shire, Orocarni was near enough to the sea that some seafood could be incorporated into the cuisine. The fish was not always fresh, but ever resourceful, the Eastern dwarrow had devised ingenious ways of preserving it. Bilbo was most fascinated by the process of producing a dried soup stock commonly used, which had to be fermented for several months.

 

Bilbo was enthusiastically relating this to Dori later that evening when he noticed the sad, almost pitying smiles on his face. Finally, when Bilbo had run out of things to say, Dori laid a comforting hand on top of his.

 

“Oh, Bilbo,” He said, and Bilbo still felt a small wave of relief at being called his true name, “You don’t have to pretend to be happy for them.”

 

“For who?”

 

“For Thorin and the princess, of course!” Dori smiled sadly, lips pursed together in false cheer.

 

“Dis? Why, what’s happened to them?” Bilbo asked, beginning to frown in concern. From what he could tell by the state of the kingdom, Thorin had seemed to be recovering from his wounds and his ailments of the mind. He ruled with a fine, if not a bit irregular, hand. And while he was not the wisest king, he seemed to surround himself with wise advisors (Dis at their head), and while he was said to be melancholy at best and irrational at worst, his heirs and sister were deeply beloved, securing the popularity of the succession if not the popularity of the king himself.

 

“No, Princess Yuna,” Dori started, understanding slowly dawning in his eyes as he looked at the blank look on Bilbo’s face.

 

“Oh, Bilbo,” He breathed, taking his hand in earnest now, “Bilbo I believe they are meaning to wed.”

 

There was a faint ringing in Bilbo’s ears. The bird in his chest seemed to startle, awoken suddenly from its slumber, beating its wings against Bilbo’s ribs. “But,” His voice sounded pinched even to his own ears.

 

“But, his- his _One._ I thought,” Bilbo forced himself to swallow, refusing the part of him that whispered that he’d thought that _he_ had been Thorin’s One. “I thought dwarves only loved once.”

 

“They do,” Dori was quick to reassure him, “But one does not need to love to marry.”

 

“He has heirs though,” Bilbo said, grasping at straws though he’d sworn he’d given up hope long ago, “Fili and Kili are well! The Kingdom prospers. Why would he force a union?”

 

“We are rich in coin, Bilbo,” Dori explained, slowly, as though to a child, making something ugly lift its head in Bilbo’s gut. He stamped it down furiously. “But we are few in number. In Orocarni they number many, but have little coin.”

 

“But, the princess, Yuna, she could not possibly have agreed to a loveless marriage so readily,” Bilbo said as a last resort. Dwarrow might not be the most emotionally in tune race, but their belief in their One held an almost revered place in the heart of even the most stoic dwarf.

 

“Most of us are free to find those we cherish above all others,” Dori said carefully, “Sometimes royalty must think of the kingdom first. All our nobles know that. It’s something they’ve lived with since birth.”

 

Bilbo fell into silence, staring at his hands. How could he go back to the kitchens knowing this? How could he prepare this food knowing it was going up to the greater halls to please the people threatening to steal his One – if hobbits could be believed to have such things – right out from under his nose? Out of cheer and excuses, Bilbo thanked Dori for his concern and saw himself out, deaf to the worry in his friend’s voice as they bid their farewells.

 

And yet, though he left Dori, Bilbo could not bring himself to return to his rooms. He felt restless, as though the bird of his heart had sensed the winter on the wind and begged to fly south, to flee. He did not weep, though it was a near thing as his feet lead him purposefully to Bofur and Bifur’s little shop.

 

The door was locked, but a light shone from under the door so Bilbo knocked until it was unlatched.

 

“Bilbo,” Bofur looked surprised, though his pleasure at seeing his friend melted into sympathy as he gave Bilbo a once over. “Ye heard, I see. Come in, then.”

 

A warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, Bofur lead Bilbo into the shop and then into the workroom beyond. Bifur sat a bench, tiny bronze gears and delicate wire filaments spread out before him. He wore an odd headpiece with a circle of glass hanging in front of his face that magnified one pale blue-gray eye when he turned to look at Bilbo and his cousin.

 

He grunted something in greeting, gesturing with the pliers in his hand to the long bench beside him. Bofur gently pushed Bilbo down onto it, and Bilbo sat, dazed. He watched as Bifur, with his great-calloused fingers, fit the tiny pieces into polished brass casing with as much care as any Shire gardener took with her spring seedlings.

 

“What are you going to do now?” Bofur finally asked.

 

“I don’t know.” Perhaps his time in the mountain really was coming to an end. He had come to protect his friends and his friends were safe: Bofur and Bifur had their shop, Bombur had the kitchens and his family. Dori was sought after for his designs with increasing popularity, and Ori seemed to be doing well in his studies. He had not seen the rest, but his friends kept him well enough supplied in gossip to know that they – that Erebor – prospered.

 

The mountain did not need him to guard it from its king, and its king did not need him at all. His purpose here was fulfilled and yet he lingered on, even if he was too stubborn to admit why.

 

Bifur growled something, flicking his magnifying lens up and setting his tools on his workbench. He turned, still speaking, gesturing at Bofur with his fists. Bofur looked on with interest and some trepidation.

 

“What’s he say?” Bilbo asked finally. The corners of Bofur’s mouth curved upward ever so slightly, making his mustache twitch.

 

“My cousin,” He said with exaggerated delicacy, “Points out that the festivities include many nights of dancing.”

 

Bilbo stared. He had some idea of where his friends were going, but was unsure if he were quite willing to entertain the idea yet. Still, Bofur continued, keeping his voice light. “He has confidence that the traditional honoring of Ones will take precedence over politics on this most blessed of Mahalmerag.”

 

Not waiting for Bilbo to respond, Bifur rose from the bench and began shuffling around the room. It was a tall room, lined with shelves and cupboards stuffed to bursting with tools and scraps of metal and half-finished toys and scrolls of paper covered in designs and ledgers and boxes upon boxes Bilbo could not guess the content of.

 

“Aha!” Climbing a stepstool, Bifur gave a satisfied sound as he found his quarry on a high shelf. With all the care he’d shown the toy he’d been crafting earlier, Bifur gently carried the brown paper wrapped parcels down to Bilbo and pressed them gently into the hobbit’s hands.

 

“He says he and Dori worked on this a while back now, and that you ought open them in order,” Bofur said, bemused. Indeed the brown paper was carefully marked with the cirth for one through three.

 

Unable to knock their foreheads together without risk of injury, Bifur gently touched his fingers to his head before pressing them against Bilbo’s brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> âfnarag/Yuleblot - rough equivalent of December in dwarrow & Shire calendars
> 
> Mahalmerag - dwarvish mid-winter festival
> 
> months/holidays courtesy of Dwarrow Scholar


	3. 3. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo attends a ball

 

It was a selfish, selfish desire. The kingdom would prosper from an influx in the population: families might be formed, trade routes better established, alliances solidified. Even without considering Erebor, the people of Orocarni might suffer if anything were to intercede in the union between Thorin and Yuna. Dori had said they were a poorer people. What families might go hungry if the marriage failed?

 

It was simple, then. He just wouldn’t get in the way of the marriage. After all, there was nothing that said he could not _look_ upon the King. If anything, after so long without a leader, the dwarrow of Erebor were encouraged to see their king for themselves. If that were the case, then he would be Baldor and claim loyalty and admiration were his only reasons to sneak into the festivities.

 

The whole evening, Bilbo’s hands shook. He spilled broth more than usual, earning himself several small burns and a reprimand from Óilvur.

 

“What is the matter with you, boy?” He demanded finally after Bilbo had, unthinking, walked straight into a server and knocked a tray of dried figs and dates drizzled with honey from her hands. Bilbo apologized and claimed he was ill, retreating to his rooms as soon as Óilvur dismissed him.

 

Locking the door firmly behind him, Bilbo breathed deeply. He washed his face and re-glued his beard in silence, eyes trained on the packages Bifur had given him the night before. Bilbo guessed what they might be from handling them, but he had not dared open them yet. Stealing himself, Bilbo reached for the package marked with the Khuzdhul number one and broke the rough twine tying it shut.

 

He let out a long breath. Bilbo had guessed correctly, but he was still unprepared for how beautiful the garments were, nestled in the simple brown paper. Gently, he ran his fingers over the pale gray cloth. It shimmered silver even in the weak light of his rooms. Carefully, Bilbo shook out the clothes, spreading them over his bed.

 

There was a long silver tunic that fell to his knees, and an surcoat in a darker, but still shimmering, gray. The shoulders and cuffs were heavily embroidered with blue and gray geometric patterns. Bilbo could see Bifur’s whimsical handiwork in the brooch that would close the tunic at the neck, which was shaped like a pair of clasped hands. The little silver clasps that Bilbo could wear in his false beard and hair, looked like Bifur’s work as well. Upon closer inspection, the clasps revealed themselves to be the tiniest bells he’d ever laid eyes on. They let out the lightest tinkling sound whenever they moved.

 

Bilbo hesitated. The lot of it was far too grand for him. He wanted to go to the night’s festivities to observe, not attract attention.

 

He shook his head. No one would notice him. Even if the clothes were very fine, he still had naught to wear with them but his heavy working boots and his thick everyday belt. He would no sooner stand out than any other noble in attendance. If anything, he would attract more attention by foregoing the garments, as a dwarf as poor as himself would never be invited to such a function and would stick out like a pigeon among peacocks.

 

Slowly, he began to dress.

 

\--

 

By the time Bilbo arrived at the great hall, the feast was over and done. It was for the best, he decided, since it would be noticed if there was no place for him at the banquet table. Finely dressed dwarrow mulled about both in and near the entrance of the hall, making it easy for Bilbo to simply walk in. It was amazing, the places one could get into if one walked with enough confidence.

 

Still, whatever confidence Bilbo mustered faded as he stepped inside the Great Hall. For a moment he could not move in awe. He had only been in the great hall once, years ago, when it still smelled of dragon and decay. Its columns had been scarred and stained and the room had been so dark that Bilbo had not seen just how cavernous it truly was.

 

Now repaired, the floor gleamed, decorated with hundreds of polished green and black tiles that spread out in huge geometric diamonds across the floor. With the room lit, Bilbo could see that the arcade of carved columns rose far higher than he ever thought they might, supporting two layers of balconies above them.

 

The first balcony displayed a small orchestra. The troop was a mix of Ereborean musicians, sporting harps, violas, flutes, and clarinets, and others from the Orocarni, carrying instruments Bilbo could not name: one like a long harp across the musician’s lap, another like a lute but played upright like a cello, and another like a great long wooden horn. On the gallery above them stood a choir, still running through their warm ups.

 

Above the galleries, the clearstory rose high enough that Bilbo could scarcely see the vaulted ceilings from where he stood, only the grand chandeliers built from both naturally glowing crystals and handmade lamps. The effect was that the light that shone on the guests below glittered blue-green and golden.

 

Seating and long buffet tables had been erected beneath the first arcade of columns, leaving the vast floor clear in preparation for the dancing to follow. And there, at the far end of the hall, on a dais raised above the rest of the crowd, sat the royal family.

 

Bilbo would be a liar as well as a traitor if he said he did not feel his heart stirring in his chest at the sight. Even from this distance, though he could not make out his face clearly, Bilbo could see how they had trussed Thorin up for the evening. Regal as he might look, he was covered in enough jewels that it must be rather difficult to move, and that wasn’t even counting the weight of the raven crown on his brow. Beside him, his sister and nephews fared better, all in blue but given enough freedom of movement that they might actually be able to dance when the time called for it.

 

Seated on Thorin’s left, surrounded by her own dignitaries, Bilbo got his first glance at the princess Yuna. He stepped forward, walking beneath the arcade to avoid attention while still hoping for a better look at the royalty. Yuna was beautiful even by hobbit standards. She had the same glittering black hair and eyes as the first Blacklock representative Bilbo had met, as well as the same warm golden complexion. Her dark hair was parted straight down the center and then carefully sculpted out away from her head, decorated with a number of red and gold combs. Her beard was the straightest and silkiest that Bilbo had ever laid eyes on. A hobbit at heart, he knew little about the aesthetics of beards even now, but guessed the waterfall of facial hair would be considered quite comely among the dwarves.

 

In the common tongue, the Orocarni were called the Red Mountains, and the princess bore their image on the wide belt across her torso. She wore at least three robes beneath it, the garments wrapped from left to right over her chest rather than closed straight down, and over it all she wore a loose golden jacket . Her long sleeves billowed around her like a mist though she sat calm and pristine, barely moving despite the attention trained on her.

 

Looking on her made Bilbo feel very small indeed.

 

Unable to bring himself to stare any longer, Bilbo retreated to one of the buffet tables, contenting himself with eating the food that came out of the kitchens instead of preparing it for once. He consoled himself with turnovers stuffed with dill and ground beef, beets sliced thin as paper and stuffed with dried herring from the Long Lake, and mushroom caps pickled with onions.

 

After a glass of mulled cider, Bilbo felt himself again, or enough like himself that when the musicians lifted their instruments, Bilbo was glad to see the crown princes striding onto the dance floor.

 

Bilbo had lived in the mountain long enough to learn many dwarvish dances, though he had not been invited to any functions and so could not say if it was customary or not to for the princes to open the dancing with a traditional Trepak. Customary or not, the brothers were a delight to watch. They were skilled, of course, spinning and kicking as though they were puppets pulled through the air by unseen strings, but it was not their skill that made Bilbo’s heart clench. It did him good to see Fili landing always where he meant to, one-eyed or not, and to watch Kili jump and kick without the faintest hint of his still persistent limp.

 

He was set enough on watching them that he did not notice another dwarf approaching him until they had gently brushed his arm to catch his attention.

 

“Pardon,” Bilbo turned to see a very young dwarf (not yet of age or only barely just, if he had to guess). Their hair was wild, the color of a garnet, and something in their ruddy features looked just a bit familiar. The young dwarf was absolutely red in the face and Bilbo hoped it was from embarrassment and not the wine.

 

“Might I ask you for the next dance?” Bilbo blinked and the young dwarf went from red to near purple with what Bilbo deemed to be nerves. Well, what was the point of hauling himself all the way out to a ball if he wasn’t going to dance at least a little? When Bilbo nodded, the tiny bells in his beard chimed his assent and the red-haired dwarf let out an audible sigh of relief.

 

They offered Bilbo a hand as the cheering for the princes’ dance began to die and the familiar fiddle for the Kamarinskaya began.

 

“Do you dance the Right or the Left?” The dwarf asked. In the Shire, pair dancing had been divided between men and women. Dwarven gender, he had learned since coming to Erebor, was more complicated. But, since the dance was still in partners of two, the steps were divided into Left and Right, rather than trying to figure which gender ought to dance which part. It had taken some getting used to, and Bilbo thanked every God he could think of that Bombur’s children were so fond of dancing and Dori so fond of etiquette.

 

“All my friends only dance the Right _,_ so I’m afraid I only know the Left steps,” Bilbo said carefully, weighing the chance of nobility pointing out that he _ought_ to know both steps against the risk of being forced into a position he did not know. The young dwarf smiled widely however.

 

“Well, I only know the Right _,_ so perhaps we were meant to be partners this evening,” Bilbo tried not to roll his eyes as they took their places, hands on their hips. This happened to him frequently, given how short his “beard” and height were, he was often mistaken for a younger dwarf, as this one must think to be so brazen. Still, they seemed the well-meaning sort, even if Bilbo was glad the dance was mostly walking and not anything more intimate.

 

And, for the duration of the dance at least, Bilbo forgot why he’d come. He ignored his once friends, once lovers, so nearby, and ignored the fact he was playing a delicate bluff, and allowed himself the few minutes of fun that dancing in a crowd offered.

 

It was enough that when the first dance ended and his partner asked if he would like to dance the next one as well, Bilbo agreed. In fact, when Bilbo’s partner tired, he continued dancing, one after the next after the next, until his face was red and his feet were sore and he forgot to worry about his beard sliding off his face.

 

Only when the Rimakhîn began did Bilbo notice he had crossed the whole floor and was now standing near the royal dais. Fearfully, Bilbo glanced up at it, only to find the makeshift throne empty. Glancing around himself, Bilbo realized suddenly why.

 

The Rimakhîn was danced in circles, partners one beside the other. As the name implied, it was usually danced in four pairs, but for a dance floor such as this, the circles had been widened to eight pairs. And there, standing not even halfway round the circle from him was the King himself. He had shed his longest and heaviest robe as well as his crown, and still he looked a spectacle. As though feeling the weight of Bilbo’s gaze, Thorin looked up just as Bilbo ducked his head.

 

The music began. If Thorin recognized him, he did not react and Bilbo prayed he had not. The circle began to spin – two steps to the side, before twirling together momentarily as a pair, then switching and moving on. It was like one of Bifur’s marvelous toys, a ring spinning, splitting, joining again, the bells in his beard tinkling all the while, and yet the bird in his chest beat its wings frantically as Thorin drew ever nearer.

 

“Do I know you?” Bilbo kept his chin down, praying his hands did not shake as the King held them. If he noticed, he could claim it was the shock of meeting royalty. Panicking, Bilbo’s voice came out cracked and deeper than usual.

 

“I think I would remember having met your majesty,” He spluttered as they spun, not daring to look up.

 

“You are not one of my courtiers?”

 

“No,”

 

“And you are not one of these Blacklocks,”

 

“No, majesty,” And then, just as quickly as he’d been handed to Thorin, Bilbo was spun away into the hands of a new partner. Round and round beneath the gold and blue lights of the chandeliers they turned, until he and Thorin found each other again.

 

“Where are you from then?” Thorin demanded, as though there had been no pause in their conversation. Bilbo wondered distantly if he did this to all his dance partners, and hoped that he did not. It would be tiresome to keep up eight conversations at once.

 

“The Iron Hills, your majesty.”

 

“I was sure I knew all of the members of Dain’s party,” Thorin grumbled, and Bilbo wondered if he looked as childish as he sounded.

 

“I am not with Lord Dain’s party,” Was being deliberately pigheaded to a king a punishable crime?

 

“Why are you here then?”

 

“All Mahal’s children wish to see the line of Durin restored.” And away they spun again, swaying with different partners, hopping in time to a more lively beat until they broke the circle and formed two lines facing one another, then two circles, and finally finding partners once more, Bilbo found himself again hand in hand with Thorin.

 

“And now that you have seen it? What purpose keeps you?” Thorin asked, once again speaking as though they had not paused at all.

 

“To dance, majesty,” Bilbo dodged. Thorin made a ragged sound, making Bilbo glance up to realize it was a snort. Bilbo bit back a grin. How many real courtiers could say they’d gotten his royal idiocy to make such a sound this evening?

 

“Are you honestly refusing to tell me who you are?”

 

“No,” Bilbo hedged, relief sweeping through him as they finally changed partners, “Well, yes.”

 

He did not come into contact with the King again in the dance, and stole away as soon as it had ended, the silver bells marking his flight from the Great Hall.

 

Alone in his room, Bilbo took off his fine silver coat and tunic, folded them and hid them away in the chest by his bed. He carefully unclipped every bell from his hair, deaf to their soft chimes, and unbraided every plait. He washed away his beard and kicked his boots across the room and was, once again, Bilbo Baggins: stupid and selfish and alone.

 

\--

 

Perhaps it was sleep deprivation from dancing too late the night before which led to the next disaster in Bilbo’s career.

 

In the morning, Bilbo rolled from his bed, readied himself, and made his way to the kitchens before dawn. He stewed porridge for the diners of Erebor and the strange fermented bean paste into soup for the Blacklocks. He broke to eat a slab of cheese and a slice of bread at midmorning in the lull between breakfast and lunch, trying not to think of the foolishness sitting in his pocket that very moment. He returned to work before noon, tossing chicken bones, onions, carrots, celery, sage and a bay leaf into an enormous pot of water to begin making more stock. While he waited he began kneading together dough for afternoon rugelach.

 

He was elbows deep in flour and butter when Óskur found him.

 

“King’s requesting your soup again, Baldor,” He said, all together too cheerfully, eyebrows waggling. Bilbo groaned, calling for one of the pastry chefs to deal with the rest of his dough while he started on the King’s soup.

 

It had been funny at first, thinking of the great dwarven king enjoying Laura Baggins’ summer soup recipe, but the joke was a bit old now. Besides that, it was winter and entirely inappropriate for a seasonal summer soup. Not that he could go around saying so to anyone, but he still grumbled to himself as he simmered more onions.

 

Bilbo was waiting for the soup to boil down when it happened. Impatient, exhausted from too much dance and too little sleep, distracted by the memory of Thorin’s hand in his after so long apart, Bilbo reached into his pocket and felt it.

 

Bilbo could not say why, after almost three years, he had taken the piece of the Arkenstone from its wooden box and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t even like the stupid thing. He wanted to be rid of it, but he understood its importance now and could not think of disposing of something so sacred on his own.

 

Ladling the soup into a silver bowl, it struck Bilbo. There was one way to make sure the stone made it to the right hands.

 

\--

 

Of all the reactions Bilbo had anticipated, he had not expected fury, and he certainly had not expected Thorin to storm into the kitchens himself to seize upon poor Óilvur. To his credit, Óilvur did not throw Bilbo to the wolves, even when Thorin outright asked if they were so careless that _anyone_ could slip _anything_ into his food. Bilbo, back turned to the scene as he feigned dishwashing again, flinched and tried his best not to crack at the sound of Thorin’s voice raised in anger. It sounded too much like the accusations and insults hurled at him for stealing the real Arkenstone – _the Gabil_ Arkenstone, the dwarves called it now, the great Arkenstone and the lost one.

 

It wasn’t until the King was sated and safely away that Óilvur had it out with Bilbo.

 

“Did you put the _Luzun_ Arkenstone in his majesty’s soup?” He’d demanded, shaking Bilbo by the shoulders until Bilbo pushed him off.

 

“Listen to yourself, Óilvur,” Bilbo had snapped, and if he trembled he ignored it pointedly, “That stone was lost before I even came to Erebor! More to the point, how could the King’s Jewel have come to a dishwasher and soup cook?”

 

Still, Bilbo shook, and continued to shake even after Óilvur had left to interrogate the poor soul who’d brought the offending soup to the King’s room. It wasn’t until much later in the evening, when Bilbo was boiling noodles for Princess Yuna’s supper that Bombur came to him.

 

The head chef made a good show of checking Bilbo’s work, as though chastising him for earlier this afternoon, but he leaned forward before he left.

 

“They are saying it’s a sign,” He whispered, “That our kingdom is to be made whole. That the King has found his missing piece.”

 

Bilbo’s heart fluttered, for one wild moment believing that the missing piece might be himself. It was only a glance at Bombur’s face that said otherwise. The Princess really was meant to come to Erebor then. Bilbo told himself as he returned to his work that he had never intended to interfere in the first place so it hardly mattered if Mahal himself seemed to be blessing the union. But the bird of his heart crowed so loudly, Bilbo thought he could almost hear it with his waking ears.

 

 


	4. 4. Second and Third Nights

In the end, it was a loosing battle telling himself to keep away from the next night of celebration. He fretted and went over all the reasons why he shouldn’t and worried himself silly and in the end, he still couldn’t help but weasel his way out of his nightly duties and back to his room and Dori and Bifur’s next parcel.

 

As with the last night, Bilbo was not entirely shocked to cut the paper away and discover a coat and tunic he did not nearly deserve to wear. Tonight’s tunic appeared a rich yellow-ochre until he moved it, giving away the gold thread laced through the garment, which made it shimmer and shine with every movement. The coat, made from the same glistening material, was trimmed with fur. Bilbo could not guess what animal had grown such rich golden brown fur, but it was soft as a cloud, almost too soft to feel against his neck.

 

For his part, Bifur had provided a cascade of tiny golden beads for Bilbo to braid into his hair and a clasp for his tunic in the shape of a pair of golden butterfly wings. When fastened at the neck, the tiny creature appeared whole, its little wings so delicate that they appeared to flutter with every breath Bilbo took.

 

He hurried on to the great hall, later than he was last time. The night's dancing had already begun by the time he arrived.

 

The chandeliers were hung lower tonight, lit only by the candles, so that the hall was dim and intimate. The music was unlike any Bilbo had heard before, thin and liquid, like water flowing through a tiny crack. An upward glance revealed the Orocarni musicians at work to produce the unusual sound. Melting into the crowd, Bilbo made his way forward until he could see the spectacle that held the guests’ attention.

 

Princess Yuna’s style of dress was reminiscent of the night before – long sweeping sleeves in blue and cream and a wide silvery silk belt. Her black hair was piled high on her head and ornamented again with many combs. Where her beard had been left loose the first night, she now wore it in a dozen tiny loops held in place with glittering silver beads. The effect looked almost like black lace from a distance.

 

She stood in the center of the crowd, her ladies-in-waiting on either side of her. She swayed and turned, gesturing smoothly with her hands and sleeves. Bilbo realized slowly that this must be the Blacklocks' response to the show Fili and Kili had put on during the last celebration. Despite the difference in appearances and food, it had not occurred to Bilbo that there might be a difference even in the clans’ dances. No wonder the Princess had refrained from joining last time.

 

As the dance came to a close, Bilbo had the decency to feel at least a little guilty for his actions. Here he was, stealing time from Thorin where he had no right to, when Yuna couldn’t even compete for a place beside him for not knowing the steps to their dances. Bilbo applauded along with the rest of the crowd as the royal dwarrow returned to their places on the dais.

 

The dancing began in earnest then, though Bilbo held back. Again he contented himself with the lavish spread that had been provided for the party, drowning out his common sense in cakes made of sweet cheese and raisins, fried to a perfect golden color and smothered in jam and tiny buttery tarts filled with fruit preserves and rugelach stuffed with walnuts and drizzled with honey.

 

For a good while, Bilbo was content to sit and eat and observe. His heart may have clenched when he saw Balin, looking sharp in long red robes, deep in conversation with one of the members of the Blacklock delegation. It may have ached to catch sight of Ori, looking so much older with his beard finally starting to grow in and Dori’s ribbons finally banished, having and winning an argument with a dwarf twice his age across the hall. It may have threatened to beat straight out of his chest when he caught sight of Kili making faces on his brother’s blindside when he knew he couldn’t see him. But that’s what Bilbo was here for, wasn’t it? To see them all.

 

“We meet again, Binimnâl.”

 

“Your Majesty,” It was shock as much as protocol that had Bilbo dropping into a deep bow. Just to his right, by the buffet table, stood the King. He wore red tonight, a color Bilbo had never seen Thorin in before. To be fair, there was hardly time to change clothing with any regularity when they’d been on their quest, and Bilbo had not seen Thorin afterwards. A guard stood near him.

 

“Not too loudly, now. I’ve only just got away.” Bilbo chanced a glance up to gauge Thorin’s face. After all, that had sounded almost like a joke. Gingerly, the King chose a tiny fruit tart and popped it into his mouth.

 

“Your lordship does not enjoy conversation?” Bilbo attempted to keep a straight face watching crumbs fall into Thorin’s silver and black beard.

 

“I do. More so than _some_ dwarrow I’ve met from the Iron Hills.” Thorin said loftily, irate but not entirely displeased with him yet. Though he did not smile, the way his glance slid over to look at Bilbo betrayed his jest. “They are a most secretive clan.”

 

Bilbo ducked his head again to hide his smile. “Your Majesty’s patience for it is truly a marvel.”

 

Thorin sighed. “You truly withhold your name from me?”

 

“With my deepest apologies, I assure you,”

 

“And your purpose for being here, that is hidden as well?”

 

“How it does pain me to keep it so,” Bilbo lifted a hand to his brow, making the beads in his hair chime. Thorin breathed out heavily through his long nose.

 

“If you must withhold your name and your purpose, then at least entertain me, Binimnâl.” Bilbo paused for a moment before he spoke.

 

“ _The wheat from the chaff,/ I shine with pale light,/ grown in the darkness,/ a king’s delight_.” He said finally, “What am I?”

 

Thorin stared, frowning. Bilbo felt suddenly foolish, and not just for posing the silly question. He would know it was Bilbo, surely, for posing riddles and posing so, so foolishly as a dwarf. But when Thorin spoke it was only with disgruntled frustration. “I don’t know. What is it?”

 

“The Arkenstone, my lord,” Bilbo said in a rush, then, “I had heard the _Luzun_ Arkenstone returned to you.”

 

“Indeed.” Thorin’s face darkened. “A cruel act of fate.”

 

“The people are saying it is a good sign,” Bilbo pressed, surprised. Thorin had been furious enough to banish him over the stone. He must have been all the angrier to learn it was damaged when it was finally returned to him. Why would he possibly oppose the missing shard’s reappearance and reunification?

 

“The _Luzun_ Arkenstone ought to have stayed lost.” Thorin straightened, slipping away into himself before Bilbo’s eyes. “It will only join the _Gabil_ Arkenstone in the darkest vaults in Erebor now.”

 

Offended in some way Bilbo did not fully understand, Thorin excused himself. His eyes followed Thorin back to the dais, puzzling over his words. As Thorin climbed the steps, Bilbo’s eyes slid again to the Princess Yuna and nearly jumped in his boots to find her staring back at him.

 

\--

 

This time, Bilbo knew what he was doing, courting disaster. Even more exhausted than before, Bilbo began to fear that Óilvur would begin to wonder why his soup chef kept dozing off over his chowder. Yet he could not use sleep deprivation to excuse his actions.

 

When, the following afternoon, Bilbo slipped the silver ring into Thorin’s soup, he knew that he was doing wrong. He knew that Thorin would return to the kitchens in a frenzy and that, in the face of the King’s wrath, he could not trust that Óilvur would not rat him out. He might be able to hide in plain sight when Thorin was distracted by a glittering celebration, but Bilbo would have no gold and silver vestments to hide behind if he were cornered here.

 

And yet, for all that Bilbo’s predictions of Thorin came true, the king descending upon the kitchen in search of answers, his hair whipping around his head like dark storm clouds around a mountain, he had not counted on the loyalty of Óilvur. Even after all these years, Bilbo still fought to remember that loyalty was the standard for dwarrow and that Thorin’s behavior before the battle (and his own for that matter) was the exception, not the rule.

 

Thorin shouted and threatened to have his prison guards loosen their tongues for them, but by now Bilbo could tell that the words were little more than a shrieking kettle: all hot air. The knowledge didn’t stop Óilvur from boxing his ears over the incident. In his panic, Óilvur did not even take notice if the tips of his ears were pointed or not. Head spinning, it was all Bilbo could do to reason with him,

 

“Listen to yourself,” he said again, holding his head with his hands, “That ring was lost before I even came to Erebor! How could a dishwasher and soup cook have come across the seal of Durin?”

 

Even more nervous than before, Bilbo spent the day jumping at every dwarf that passed through the kitchen doors, sure that they were guards come to arrest him. He packed and repacked his belongings in his head, already planning exactly how he might defend himself when he was discovered.

 

But the guards never came. It was not until they were nearly finished preparing supper that Bombur came to him again, just as before.

 

“The Princess Yuna has claimed responsibility for the incident,” He murmured into Bilbo’s ear, “A recreation of his lost seal to show her devotion to the House of Durin."

 

Bilbo’s heart sank in his chest, and for all that he tried to convince himself that it was relief, he could not bring himself to believe it.

 

\--

 

There was no question of not attending the last festival. Bilbo knew he was too far-gone to even pretend to himself that he might abstain. It was not fair. Bilbo had done so well until now. He’d managed to avoid detection for almost three years, and he’d contented himself with watching his friends – with watching Thorin – from afar. How could he have managed all that for so long, only to be ruined by two conversations and an old soup recipe?

 

He could no longer deny that he _wanted_ to speak to Thorin again, even for the briefest of moments. Something in him had changed. The King seemed older now, more tired and, if possible, more sad. Bilbo had said he had come to protect his friends from Thorin, but perhaps they no longer needed protection. Perhaps Thorin needed protection himself.

 

Bilbo kept the thought in his mind as he cut open the last of Bifur’s grand packages. If the silver tunic had been beautiful and the gold one had been stunning, then Dori and Bifur’s last gift was nothing short of bewitching.

 

Bilbo could not even name the true color of the tunic for it seemed to change at each moment – in one light pale glittering blue, in the next a shimmering pink, in the next lavender, then gold, then green. It was with a small smile that Bilbo thought to himself it looked almost as though someone had woven the cloth out of the Arkenstone itself. Small pearls had been worked into the collar and cuffs of the coat, and Bifur had provided strings of them and tiny cut bicone crystals for his hair and beard, as well as a brooch like a raven spreading its wings, its eyes cut from the same iridescent crystal.

 

His heart suddenly ached with the thought of his friends in the markets, spending a fortune to create these beautiful things for him. They could not have known he was in the mountain when they made them, and yet his friends had had utter faith in his return, sure that one day Bilbo would have occasion to wear such grand dwarvish garments.

 

\--

 

Bilbo left early for the festivities, pausing only long enough to give Óskur word that he would not arrive for work. Three nights missing after two years of good service might be enough to have him sacked from the kitchens, but after tonight it hardly seemed to matter.

 

He arrived early enough that the guests were still greeting their King. The line of dwarves was already much shorter than it might have been and it still stretched across the tiled hall from the doors to the dais. In pairs or trios, though occasionally alone, dwarrow would formally greet their monarch, exchange short words, before moving aside to take their places at either the banquet table or the seats beneath the arcade of columns.

 

Bored by the endless formalities, the crown princes and their mother had already fled to the dining table, abandoning Thorin to his duties. Yuna also remained on the dais, and though she had no formal obligation to receive guests, in regal black and gold she was sought out for words nearly as often as the King.

 

By the time Bilbo reached him, Thorin looked irate, cracking his neck when he thought no one was looking and fidgeting endlessly with something on his finger. Recognition dawned in Thorin’s eyes when Bilbo approached him, though little fondness accompanied it.

 

“I do not have time for your riddles tonight, Binimnâl, give me your name and be done with it.” It might have been meant as a jest if not for the tight line of Thorin’s mouth.

 

“Baldor, son of Gildor, your majesty,” Bilbo said, bowing low at the waist like a proper dwarf. Beside Thorin, Bilbo could feel Yuna’s eyes straying toward him.

 

“Thank you for your attendance this evening, Lord Baldor,” Thorin’s words were stiff. This was not the same Thorin who had let himself be teased as they danced on the nights before. The greeting was rehearsed and bit into Bilbo’s pride as easily as though it were an apple. He took a step back, still bowing, as the words were a clear dismissal. And yet something stayed his feet, and Bilbo straightened ever so slightly.

 

“Forgive me, Majesty, if I am too bold,” He kept his eyes on Thorin’s feet, “But much seems to weigh on your mind this night.”

 

“You are correct,” Thorin said curtly, “You are too bold, Lord Baldor. Good evening.”

 

Hurt and shame welled in Bilbo’s chest, his eyes straying upward even as he backed away. It was only because of this that he caught sight of what Thorin had been fidgeting with. The ring - the seal of Durin that he had worn through the first leg of their quest, that he had given to Bilbo in payment for saving him upon their escape from the Goblin tunnels, that Bilbo had hidden in his soup – now rested on the King’s finger once more.

 

Bilbo bowed his head and retreated as quickly as he could without making more of a fool of himself than he already had. His nerves were so high that he could not even bear the thought of eating, though the spread was as lavish as every other night had been. He stood like a lost dog on the sidelines until his red-haired dance partner from the first night reappeared and Bilbo gratefully took the offer of another dance.

 

He learned quickly why the young dwarf’s face looked so familiar when he introduced himself as Gimli son of Gloin. It was almost enough to cheer him, finally having met the lad Gloin had spent so much of the journey discussing, and Bilbo very nearly blurted out as much before he caught himself. Gimli seemed a good lad, but he did not know him enough to trust that he wouldn’t repeat his words to his father and his father to Thorin. He’d gotten into enough trouble with the King already, thank you very much.

 

When the fiddle for the Rimakhîn began again, Bilbo could not help but search for the King’s face in his circle of dancers. Thorin was nowhere to be found, but to Bilbo’s surprise, Princess Yuna stood very nearby. Her long skirts had been kilted up just enough to allow her to dance and, when the music began, Bilbo had to give credit where credit was due. He knew she was graceful enough from her dance during the last party, but she must have studied very hard to learn the steps to this Ereborean dance so quickly.

 

Still, he did not expect her to address him when, spinning, he found himself hand in hand with her.

 

“Lord Baldor,” She said, her voice rich and low.

 

“Your highness,” Bilbo ducked his head. He could hardly bow and dance at the same time.

 

“I saw you speak with my Lord Thorin these past nights,” There was something pleasing about the way she spoke, one of the few dwarrow who must have spent her life speaking Khuzdhul more than the common tongue to have such a soft accent, “He seemed to enjoy your conversations.”

 

“Many enjoy a game of riddles, my lady,” Bilbo said carefully.

 

“Well, I have a riddle for you, _Lord_ Baldor.” And, still speaking softly enough that none but Bilbo could hear, Yuna recited carefully, _“Born in one, dies in many, / Worth a fortune or a penny, / Can be good, bad or deadly, / None of us can't have any.”_

 

Before Bilbo could even think to work out the answer, the dance swept the princess away. He danced through the remainder of the Rimakhîn and another after, but soon found himself gasping for air, feet and legs aching from too many nights dancing and not enough sleeping. It wasn’t until he flopped into one of the seats beneath the arcade that Bilbo thought of the answer to Yuna’s riddle: a secret.

 

He was just beginning to reconsider the buffet tables when he saw Thorin approaching. He remained seated a moment longer than was strictly proper, unsure if Thorin was, in fact, approaching _him._ By the time he realized the King really had sought him out, Bilbo had to scramble to stand so that he might bow.

 

“Be at peace, Lord Baldor,” Of all the things Bilbo might have thought to fix on – Thorin’s admission that the Arkenstone was locked away, his unusual agitation at the return of his ring, the fact that he had not seen through Bilbo’s disguise after three nights – he was surprised to find himself entertained at being called “Lord” more than anything else. Still accompanied by a guard, Bilbo was never the less still impressed that Thorin had managed to get away for even this long. The king settled himself into a seat beside Bilbo with a sound not unlike a sigh.

 

“Please forgive my words earlier this evening. You are right. Much weighs on my mind of late.”

 

“You were right as well, Majesty. I was too familiar and I do beg your pardon.” Bilbo said, speaking to the ring on Thorin’s finger rather than to Thorin himself. He paused, before continuing. “Although should you wish to share some of the weight, it would be little burden to me.”

 

“You are a generous fellow, son of Gildor,” Thorin said, and though the exhaustion remained in his voice the coldness had fled, “I shall be sorry to see you leave.”

 

“I shall be sorry to go,”

 

“When do you return to the Iron Hills?”

 

“Early in the morning, my lord. I have been away from home too long.” Bilbo said quickly. It would not do for Thorin to come looking for him once the celebrations were done. One face in a sea of courtiers was easy to forget, but to continue the ruse in such close proximity would be asking for a death sentence.

 

“You are welcome in Erebor, should you ever wish to return.” Thorin said quietly and the bird of Bilbo’s heart began to sing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation
> 
> Binimnâl - one without name
> 
>  
> 
> Considering at some point writing an offshoot of the tale from Thorin's perspective (probably a one shot) - thoughts?


	5. 5. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get worse before they get better

 

In the morning, Bilbo slipped Thorin’s bead into his soup.

 

In the afternoon, a bag came down over his head and strong arms wrestled him from the spot where he’d been eating lunch. He wasn’t even truly surprised.

 

His hands were bound in front of him and though he was not struck, the hands on his upper arms held him firmly enough to hurt. The inside of the bag smelled of must and scratched against his face. Even as he struggled to get lungfuls of air, Bilbo could not help but worry that it would knock his false beard loose.

 

The unseen dwarrow (Bilbo guessed them to be dwarves from their height relative to his own) marched him up and down narrow passages until, dizzied, Bilbo began to worry about losing the contents of his stomach. He did not know if he were glad or fearful that they were moving away from the dungeons and towards the most prominent sector of Erebor.

 

After an age of tripping blindly over his own feet, Bilbo was shoved into a room. His bound hands hit the ground. The floor was neither bare stone nor the thick carpets that the wealthy of Erebor preferred. Instead, stinging from catching most of his weight, Bilbo’s hands met a mat made of what felt like hundreds of tiny straws or rushes. He pushed himself gingerly to his knees. The air was warm and he could hear a fire crackling nearby.

 

The bag was pulled from his head, and Bilbo gasped in the sudden brightness of the room, dragging in great gulps of fresh air. The floor was indeed covered in straw mats. Though Bilbo himself had been pushed to the floor, there were several square silk cushions on the ground near him, as well as a low wooden table. A fire burned in the hearth behind it.

 

And there, kneeling in front of the table on one of the cushions, sat Princess Yuna, flanked by four of her own guards.

 

“Your highness,” Bilbo gasped, ducking his head in a quick bow despite himself. Her beautiful face was still as stone and her dark eyes were just as cold.

 

“Spare me your false courtesy, _hafrûn_ ,” She said, calm and cold and unreadable as the moon. “Did you parse out the answer to my riddle?”

 

“A secret, your highness,” Bilbo answered quickly, dread mounting in his stomach.

 

“And even now, though you know that I have discovered yours, you still continue to threaten my Lord..” There was the smallest frown at the corner of her lips.  "To drag up ghosts of the past.”

 

She might have kicked him, the breath fled from Bilbo so fast. “My lady, I swear to you, I never-“

 

But she held up her hand and Bilbo fell silent. “Save your pleas for his Majesty, “Lord” Baldor. I’m sure he will be most interested to know how you came into possession of the relics of his _Luzun Lansel_. My people are on their way to inform him that we have apprehended you and then you will be exposed for who you truly are: a spy.”

 

Bilbo gaped, stunned into silence as she rose gracefully to her feet. “We may not be united, but a slight against the House of Durin is a slight against us all, and I will not allow anything to threaten the well being of our people.”

 

Bilbo stared at the space where she had been after Yuna departed. His breath came in ragged gasps, the hysterical sound between laughter and screaming. She had not known him. For all that Yuna was clever, cleverer than the lot of them to have caught Bilbo in _three days_ where the dwarves of Erebor had not caught him in almost three _years_ , she had believed him to be a spy rather than the traitor hobbit from the quest. Bilbo shook with mirth at the mistake as well as terror. Dwarves did not treat spies and traitors kindly. Yet Bilbo could not blame Yuna for her actions. If anything he admired her wits and dedication to protecting the people of Erebor, who were not even truly hers to claim.

 

That was it then. He had to escape. Yuna knew his face now, as well as Thorin, who would surely be informed of “Baldor the Spy” soon enough. There was no way he could continue to live in Erebor.

 

Bilbo rose to his feet, staring around the room as though some method of escape was likely to just appear if he willed it hard enough. He knew better than to try the door; it was likely locked, and even if it wasn’t, Yuna wasn’t foolish enough to leave the room unguarded. Neither were there any weapons readily available in the room, though the thought of harming anyone in his escape made Bilbo queasy. There were no windows in the small room either.

 

Bilbo began to pace, willing himself to think. He had escaped trolls and spiders and elves and dragons. He _could_ escape from this room. Bilbo stared into the fire as he paced, back and forth and back and forth… he grinned.

 

The room had no weapons, but it did have a vanity table. On the table stood a mirror, a basin, and a large jug of water. Quickly, Bilbo grabbed the jug, the movement made awkward by his bound hands, and poured the water into the fire. The flames shrieked and steam and smoke billowed up into the flue and the room. Bilbo coughed, glancing nervously at the door, but no sound came from the other side.

 

While the flames died, Bilbo replaced the jug on the vanity before returning to the fireplace. As a secondary dressing chamber, the fireplace was not as large as some in Erebor, but it was a royal room nonetheless and Bilbo guessed that he could stand in it without trouble if he crouched. Where there was a fireplace, there was a chimney, and where there was a chimney, there was a way to the surface.

 

The embers of the fire still glowed, even as they died, and Bilbo eyed them warily. There was really nothing for it, in the end, and Bilbo was glad for once that he wore thick dwarven boots. Taking a deep breath, Bilbo ducked into the fireplace, stepped up on the grate, and pushed himself up into the flue space. His legs trembled with the effort as he braced himself hard against either side of the chimney, keeping himself up with tension alone. The air was hot and smoky inside the chimney, though the stone was not hot enough to scald, and Bilbo fought the cough rising in his chest.

 

Slowly, painstakingly, Bilbo began to climb up the chimney. It was dark, though he could not tell if it was from all the soot and ash or if he was really so far from the surface. Ever so slowly upward he pushed himself, wishing he could have found a way to free his hands before he did so and forcing himself not to look down. He must have been thirty feet up when his back slid unexpectedly.

 

For one horrifying moment, Bilbo was sure he was about to fall, when he realized that he had not slipped _down_ , but back. There was an adjoining flue, connecting this chimney to the next. Gratefully, Bilbo pushed himself back and into the crawlspace, rolling until he crouched on his hands and knees. He stayed like that for a moment, willing himself not to cough or pant to loudly, listening hard for any commotion below.

 

Slowly, still in the pitch darkness, Bilbo began to crawl forward, hands out in front of him to feel for the next chimney. The fire in the next chamber was unlit and, edging himself forward in the dark, Bilbo was able to cross the narrow space without too much trouble. Onward and onward he crawled, knees and elbows and back aching from so long crouched over. His eyes felt strained from staring so long into the blackness and fear began to rise in his chest. What if the tunnel narrowed and he became stuck? What if it collapsed suddenly under his weight? Surely the crawlspace was not designed with a hobbit in mind. What if he became lost and trapped in the endless hot dark secret flue spaces of Erebor until he starved or lost his mind?

 

For the first time in years, Bilbo thought of Gollum. He remembered his pale eyes and broken teeth. He remembered his wicked grasping fingers and rasping voice, speaking always to himself in the dark for company.

 

In the end, it was sheer unluckiness that brought Bilbo out of the flue network. Reaching to cross another chimney, Bilbo lost his hold. Unwittingly, he cried out in surprise as he tumbled through the darkness, limbs slamming against the walls to slow his fall. Only, it wasn’t dark, not anymore.

 

Though Bilbo slowed his fall enough not to crack his head open, he could do nothing to stop himself from landing in flames with a crash and an impressive shower of sparks. Too frightened even to scream, Bilbo rolled out of the fireplace and over and over on the floor to put out the flames that had dared jump to his clothes and hair.

 

In the room, a young dwarfling was screaming as though Bilbo were some Balrog rising from fire and darkness to gobble her up. The door to the child’s bedroom was flung open and Bilbo did not stop to think before bowling the surprised parent over in his haste to get out the door.

 

Shouts and angry words followed him as he raced out of the dwarves’ apartments and into the streets of Erebor. He had not explored the mountain as thoroughly as he’d meant to and for the life of him, Bilbo could not recognize any familiar landmarks on the street.

 

He must not have gotten as far as he’d thought, for after mere moments he could hear footsteps fast approaching. On he ran through the streets.

 

When he dared glance over his shoulder, he saw light glittering off the armored breastplates and helmets of the royal guard. Bilbo could not help but gape at the sight – almost honored to be considered enough of a scandal to warrant Thorin’s own household guard on the look out for him.

 

He should not have turned. Perhaps if he hadn’t, he would not have run straight into the shields of the guards in front of him.

 

Bilbo fell hard, unable to keep his balance with his hands still bound. Before he could even think to rise, Bilbo found himself faced with half a dozen spearheads.

 

For the second time that day, strong arms hoisted him to his feet, holding him tight. Bilbo did not fight the grip. He was tired. His legs were cramped and bruised, his wrists scraped raw from their binding, his shoulder aching from where he’d fallen _more_ than once, and he was covered from head to toe in soot and small burns. Even if he could get away, they could just follow his sooty footprints through the streets as easily as rabbit tracks through fresh snow.

 

“Where is he?” Bilbo tensed in the guard’s hold as the roar grew louder. “I want to watch his face when I pluck his fingers off like berries off a bush! I want his beard mounted above my throne!”

 

The soldiers parted for Thorin. The King looked almost as much of a mess as Bilbo. Gone was the ceremonial robe and crown. The King’s hair was a mane of tangles and knots, as though he’d spent long hours tearing at it, and in his face was thunder.

 

“You!” And Bilbo could not help but flinch back towards the guards that held him. “You _will_ tell me how you came by this. If you lie to me again I shall have you disemboweled while you live and make you watch as I feed your entrails to the ravens.”

 

Thorin shoved something forward toward Bilbo’s face, something small and silver. Unable to think, Bilbo merely gaped at the bead Thorin had given him so long ago. Thorin could not seem to look at him, as though he could strike him down with his gaze alone and was not yet prepared to unleash it upon him. The silence stretched on until, growing impatient, Thorin shouted, “Speak!”

 

Bilbo opened his mouth.

 

And began to laugh. He was so scared and tired that no words came to him and he simply could not keep himself from dissolving into _giggles._ In front of him, Thorin had turned an alarming shade of red. “You think this _funny?_ I shall rip your beard from your chin!”

 

“You might not have to. Look,” Mahal himself must have blessed whoever voiced the observation, for Thorin took a single step backwards.

 

Between the heat of the fire and the sweat of the chase and now, the hysterical grin stretching his face, the sap affixing Bilbo’s beard to his chin had begun to come loose. The false hair fell away comically from his jaw, hanging half on half off while the hobbit gasped for air, his mirth not yet subsiding. Silence hung in the air, broken only by Bilbo’s manic laughter.

 

“I…” With hands that shook, Thorin slowly peeled the rest of the beard away. “I know your face.”

 

“You had better,” Was all Bilbo could manage, “You daft dwarf.”

 

The guards still had not released him, but they seemed suddenly wary, holding Bilbo only gingerly as their King rested unsure fingertips on Bilbo’s face. “You are here. In Erebor.”

 

“As though I’d be anywhere else,”

 

“Your kin thought you dead when we wrote them,” Thorin’s voice had gone dry and cracked, and Bilbo knew he should reassure his dwarf that he was alive and well, but all he could do was chuckle afresh.

 

“You wrote to the Shire after me?” Thorin nodded dumbly, staring at Bilbo as though he feared the hobbit would vanish into thin air if he blinked.

 

“You’ve been here this whole time,” And something in Thorin’s face crumpled. He looked halfway between tears and rage. “How could you do that to me, _lansel?_ For two and half years, I thought- I thought-”

 

“Did you think me dead?”

 

“I did not know what to think,” And Thorin pulled away sharply, that look of devastation and relief and betrayal still tangled on his face.

 

“We could find no trace of you after the battle and your kin told us you had perished. There was nothing. No evidence that you had fled the battle or stayed. No…” The words seem to catch in his throat and he took a step back. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Guards, see to it that he is given a suite in our wing and that our people know that he is to be cared for appropriately.”

 

 

And cared for he was. Bilbo was whisked away faster than he thought possible, handed from guard to servant, who escorted him to what Bilbo knew must be the royal wing of the palace. In his exhaustion and shock, Bilbo barely registered the grandeur around him.

 

In the rooms Bilbo assumed were his, at least for the moment, he was stripped of his burned, soot stained clothes and guided into the largest bathtub he’d ever laid eyes on. Servants helped him into the steaming water and, when he appeared too dumbstruck to do much more than sit in the tub, washed the ash and sap and blood from his face as well.

 

When the water was gray, they helped him from the tub and began to dress him. Bilbo found his voice just in time to prevent them from trussing him up like some giant birthday cake. He dismissed them as politely as he knew how and rummaged through the closet until he found a tunic and trousers which, though plainly made of beautiful materials, were at least a solid cream and brown with little decoration.

 

As he began working a comb through his hair, there came a knock on the door. Bilbo frowned, but to his relief when the door swung inward it was Óskur’s shaggy head that peered through the gap.

 

“Baldor? I mean, _Mr. Baggins._ ”

 

“Bilbo is just find, Óskur. You can come in, you know.” The young dwarf frowned, but obeyed. He bore a tray with a teapot, a saucer of cream, a small sugar bowl, a plate of scones, and several tiny servings of jam. Óskur’s movements were stiff and awkward as he set the tray on the table.

 

“Look at that,” Bilbo murmured, “He really is trying to get in my good graces after all this.”

 

He sat down in one of the chairs beside the table, and gestured at the one across from him. “Do sit down, Óskur, you’re making me nervous fidgeting like that.”

 

“I couldn’t possibly, my lord,” Bilbo’s once-friend said firmly, turning pink at the mere suggestion when once they had eaten together nearly every day.

 

“I’m not a lord, I’m a hobbit.” Bilbo said flatly, grimacing.

 

“Of course, my lord.” Bilbo raised an eyebrow at him, and Óskur slowly began to crack, “Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo hummed his approval and began to slather one of the scones in what looked like strawberry jam. Óskur shuffled for another moment before muttering, “You look half-naked without your beard.”

 

Bilbo chuckled around a mouthful of scone. “You have no idea how often I wanted to rip it off. That thing was damn hot.”

 

At Óskur’s scandalized look, Bilbo chuckled all the more. After watching Bilbo eat for another minute more, Óskur finally hedged. “You have guests waiting outside.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“A healer,” Bilbo nodded as Óskur hesitated yet again, “And the Princess Yuna.”

 

Bilbo paused in his chewing, before sighing. “You can send them both in, I suppose.”

 

Óskur gave a bow that was too short to be proper but made Bilbo roll his eyes anyway.

 

“Óskur,” Bilbo called, just before the young dwarf reached the door, “I am sorry for lying to you.”

 

Óskur gave him a funny look, but merely shook his head. “You’re not the bad sort, Baggins. A bit mad, to be sure, but not all bad.”

 

The healer, a wizened dwarf with white hair and beard entered almost as soon as Óskur had disappeared. She introduced herself as Beryl daughter of Keryl and set about poking and prodding Bilbo within an inch of his life. Satisfied that he was not more than bruised, she had just settled down to dabbing Bilbo’s burns with some foul smelling ointment when the door opened again.

 

Yuna appeared, hands clasped in front of her. Her face, though still as unreadable as stone, had lost the coldness of when she had confronted Bilbo this morning.

 

“Before you say a word,” Bilbo said, mouth hardening defensively though the princess had not made a single sound, “I _am_ sorry if this disrupted your wedding. I know the arrangement was important to the dwarves of Orocarni, and if there is some way I can make up whatever was lost, I will do what I can to help you.”

 

The princess made a sound that, on anyone else, might have been a snort. The corners of Yuna’s mouth twitched. “I came to apologize, Mr. Baggins, for falsely accusing you and abducting you this morning.”

 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, deflating. “You aren’t angry that I upset your wedding before it began?”

 

Yuna shook her head, her long silky beard swaying at the motion. “They are in negotiations now, but I believe the financial assistance we hoped for will still be provided.”

 

“That’s- that’s good then,” Bilbo sighed, relief flooding him. Yuna stepped closer, finally allowing herself the smallest of smiles.

 

“The fact is, Mr. Baggins, I must thank you.” Bilbo looked up at her sharply, “It is possible that, without the obligation of a political marriage, I will be able to return to my One. She was most upset when she learned I was departing for Erebor.”

 

Yuna glanced at the chair opposite Bilbo and he waved her into the seat. Her posture was perfectly straight, but somehow her poise did not make Bilbo feel as insignificant as it once had.

 

“It is more than that, you understand,” She said carefully, “I was chosen because I was one of the few in my family both eligible and unable to bear children with his Majesty. With my own One, however, I have every reason to believe I could have a family.”

 

“I always wondered why Dis didn’t seem threatened by you,” Bilbo smiled. No, there was little chance the Dis would tolerate anything that threatened her boys’ position as heirs. She would have helped to make a match that could not result in a contender for the throne.

 

“You have returned my future to me, Bilbo Baggins.” She said sternly, fixing Bilbo with her sharp black eyes before inclining her head in the smallest of bows. “If ever you make your way east to the Red Mountains, you will be most welcome.”

 

\--

 

It was not until later, after the healer, Beryl, had declared him fit and he and Yuna had wiled away the evening chatting and Óskur had brought him supper, that Thorin finally appeared to him. For a moment, Bilbo wanted to be angry with him for leaving him alone so long, but he supposed being king was a full time occupation and, if Yuna was to be believed, he’d spent a great deal of the time smoothing things over with the delegation from Orocarni.

 

Thorin looked exhausted, hesitating in the doorway as though Bilbo had the power to order him away. “Hello again,”

 

“Hello,” At the chill in Bilbo’s voice, Thorin winced, “Have you come to shout at me again?”

 

“No,” Thorin said, stepping into the room with a frown, “Though after these last few years I hardly think I was over reacting. May I sit?”

 

Bilbo bit back the response that they were technically Thorin’s chairs and he hardly needed permission, nodding instead and watching as Thorin lowered himself into one with a sigh.

 

“So you really have been here all this time,” Thorin said, and though the words were bitter they were just a little amused as well, “Making soup.”

 

“Not this whole time. I was washing dishes for most of it. The soup is a relatively new phenomenon.” Bilbo answered, and if he was a bit defensive, well he was entitled to that now wasn’t he?

 

“The green soup,” Thorin nodded, “I should have known no dwarf would serve it.”

 

He looked like he was trying to smile, but as the silence stretched out between them like a ravine, even that fell away. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived?”

 

“I did not know you thought me dead,” Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek, squaring his shoulders, “And I had no reason to think you’d rejoice at the news that I lived. You _might_ remember threatening to execute me if you ever saw me again when last we spoke.”

 

“I would have taken back my words at the gate had you given me the chance,” Thorin snapped, bristling.

 

“And what chance did I have to give you? Thorin, you _threatened my life._ ”

 

“I sent out messengers after the battle. I wished to reconcile.” And if that weren’t a pout of royal proportions, then Bilbo would shave his own furry feet. “With no trace of you to be found, I thought I had been abandoned.”

 

“You would have deserved it.” Bilbo glowered, knowing that, true or not, it was a stinging blow. Thorin’s fists clenched on his thighs. He drew in a great breath as though to shout, but let it out in a long low sigh instead. He seemed to deflate before Bilbo’s eyes.

 

“I know.” Bilbo stared at him for long moments, unsure whether to be glad or concerned that for even a moment Thorin was able to let go of his pride.

 

“You no longer seem afflicted by the dragon sickness,” Bilbo said finally, curiously, “Are you cured?”

 

“Not fully,” Thorin admitted, looking at once far too old and too young in his helplessness, “But it is under control, for now.”

 

“How did you manage that?” Thorin paused, choosing his next words carefully.

 

“Balin once expressed hope that I could be shocked into my senses. That my own injuries or those of my nephews might be enough to jar me back into my own mind. I am ashamed to say that it was not, nor was your…” And Thorin looked hard-pressed not to say ‘betrayal,’ “Disappearance.”

 

“So, how did you do it?” Bilbo prompted again, impatient.

 

“I do not know.” Thorin looked up at him, lips drawn into a tight line across his face. “Only that one day I was under the dragon’s hold and the next I knew I had scarred those I care for most. It was then that we sent word to Bag End.”

 

“But I was not there.” Bilbo finished for him.

 

“No,” Thorin agreed grimly. “Nor anywhere else we could think to search.”

 

Thorin looked at him and there was desperation in his voice, “Will you tell me what happened? I have spent two years pondering your fate. If you have any pity left, please…”

 

And so Bilbo did. He told how he’d fought some and lost some during the battle, kept safe by his magic ring. He told how Gandalf had sheltered him for a time, offering to take him all the way back to the Shire, but how in the end he’d left with Bilbo’s ring but no hobbit. He relayed the measures he’d taken to disguise himself and how he’d snuck his way into Erebor’s kitchens.

 

“But how did they not know you for an imposter?” Caught in Bilbo’s story, Thorin’s anger and grief were momentarily forgotten, “You speak no Khuzdhul.”

 

“I kept my mouth shut, mostly. The whole lot of them thought me dumb as a rock the first year I worked there, I spoke so little.” Bilbo shrugged, though he felt a twinge of pride despite himself, “After that, I had listened to enough to fake it. I have quite the knack for languages.”

 

Before Thorin could begin grumbling about the breech of propriety in a non-dwarf knowing any Khuzdhul, Bilbo continued. He recounted the story of how he’d earned his place as soup chef, though when he revealed how many of their former companions were aware that Bilbo was living in secret among them, Thorin protested.

 

Bilbo continued to talk over him, however, ignoring his exclamations that he ought to have recognized Bilbo when they danced, or at the very least suspected him by his gifts.

 

“I thought someone had taken them from you,” Thorin admitted when Bilbo’s tale began to catch up to the present, “Either stolen or killed you for them. It was as though they were taunting me with them. Reminding me of all that I had lost.”

 

“It was not my intention to tease you,” Bilbo said, and some of the bitterness was gone from his voice. Telling the story, letting the truth air after so long under wraps, was like drawing poison from a wound. It left him shaking, still injured but better than before.

 

“You put a stop to my wedding,” Thorin mused.

 

“Yes, well, I suppose I did.”

 

Reaching into a pocket in his robe, Thorin withdrew the silver bead, the very same one he had once offered Bilbo before the mountain was reclaimed. “Returning this to me is a sign of rejection among us. Is that what you meant by it, Bilbo Baggins?”

 

“I hadn’t really thought about it that hard, to be honest.”

 

“Then, would you accept it if I were to offer it to you anew?” Thorin, goodness bless him, actually looked nervous. “We could be bound in less than a fortnight. I know the people would accept you as consort, especially since they have heard of your deeds and-“

 

“Heavens, Thorin, _consort?_ ” Bilbo’s voice had risen more than he’d entirely meant it to, but he could not help a bit of outrage. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re proposing marriage?”

 

“Then you do reject the offer,” Thorin’s expression shut down like a slammed gate.

 

“I didn’t say that,” Bilbo snapped, “But this is a bit much, even for me. I was raised to manage a small trust and oversee four – maybe _eight-_ smials at most, not an entire bloody kingdom! A kingdom with a culture I still don’t fully understand at that. And that’s not even counting the fact that we haven’t spoken in years and you still haven’t apologized for the incident at the gate. I don’t even know your real ruddy name, only the one your people use!”

 

“It’s Mabbadûn,” Was Thorin’s only stunned response, spoken so quietly Bilbo almost didn’t hear it.

 

“Oh,” Bilbo’s breath seemed to rush from his lungs.

 

“And I _am_ sorry. For that.” Words seemed to be becoming increasingly difficult for the King, who had turned a delightful shade of pink around the ears. “From what I understand, Hobbits don’t have Ones. If you no longer care for me, I do understand.”

 

“Oh you _lelkhar_ _salsazmîn Mibilkhags!_ _”_ And from the way Thorin’s eyebrows shot up and his face went from pink to crimson, Bilbo thought he ought to learn what he had just said before he said it again, “Do you think I would have stayed so long if I didn’t love you?”

 

And the smile that broke over Thorin’s face was enough to make the bird in Bilbo’s chest begin to sing, even as he continued to rant. “Really, asking a fellow to marry you when you’ve only just met him again. It’s not as though I’m telling you no either, you daft dwarf, all I’m asking is to start over. _Slowly._ Does that really sound so bad?”

 

“That,” Thorin said, reaching to take Bilbo’s hands in his, “Sounds just fine.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> hafrûn - Traitor (male)  
> Luzun Lansel - Lost Love of all Loves  
> Mabbadûn - He who continues to climb (excessively)  
> lelkhar salsazmîn Mibilkhags - Supreme Idiot lusting (for an) elf (vulgur: literally stiff necks/swans)
> 
>  
> 
> That's all folks! There was some responsiveness to a Thorin POV fic, so I've started on that, but I can't say if/when it will be done. 
> 
> You can hit me up at secondbreakfastlunchanddinner.tumblr.com - it's mostly reblogging, but I do check it a lot

**Author's Note:**

> Translations
> 
> Maraddanûn - One who continues to assign work
> 
> Mahassûn - One who continues to help
> 
> Blotmath - roughly late October- late November (Shire Calendar)
> 
> âfdohyar - roughly late October - late Novermber, beginning with Durin's Day (using Dwarrow Scholar as a reference)


End file.
